


Unquenchable

by BansheeQueen



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:55:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeQueen/pseuds/BansheeQueen
Summary: High Overlord Saurfang reflects on the burning of Taldrassil and the direction of the Horde.





	Unquenchable

**Author's Note:**

> A short inspired by the 'Battle for Azeroth' and 'Old Soldier' videos.

He didn’t care for Lordaeron.

Perhaps Saurfang may have enjoyed the city’s splendor had it not been sacked years ago, when life filled its many houses and halls, when children laughed and sang, when the living were here and not replaced with hollow imitations. This city was eerie, and for all the wrong reasons did it remind him of the cold, unforgiving land where his son had died. He took it as a small favour that there was no snow here, that the wind only tricked him into thinking it was as bitter and unrelenting as it was in Northrend.

He wandered the halls, sparring a glance to one of the disgusting creatures that stood guard. A corpse that used to be human, but nearly all of that had rotted away. Angry, blistered dead skin hung from his face. His armour was solid but old, and his eyes hummed with a cold yellow. He remembered how Arthas’ scourge forces had blue eyes, how they throbbed with delight and hunger at the sight of the living.

The gaze this dead gave him, it was hollow. There was no driving force behind its stare, it saw him as an ally, he doubted the dead understood the concept of friendship – many of them were simple. They weren’t like the dark rangers, the necromancers or horrid warlocks… and they had near nothing in common with their Warchief, Lady Windrunner.

_Before stood Teldrassil, triumphant and wondrous. A marvel of nature and magic and though the Night Elves were his enemy --Teldrassil was something the high overlord could admire. It was beautiful. As he stood surrounded by death, surrounded by war and those clamouring for it. There was Teldrassil, a true marvel._

**_“Burn it.”_ **

He had tasted bile that night, when fire had taken everything. When the dead had found purpose and like dogs the rest of them had followed along. It twisted his guts into knots, knowing what he had done, what he had allowed to happen. He had spent every waking hour of every day wondering why he had been compelled to listen. Perhaps he could blame everything on Windrunner’s blasted champion, but it would do nothing for his soul. He had let it happen.

He had let innocence die.

Saurfang blamed it on fear, it was the only logical conclusion. Lady Windrunner terrified him, was that not a sound argument? Any of those who claimed she did not, were liars. Vast halls were drained of their warmth when she entered, and what had undoubtedly been astounding beauty in life had twisted itself into haunting elegance. She was truly a banshee; he had seen it that night on that field of battle.

She strived to drain away all hope, reason and courage – and had done it.

And now?

Now the Alliance marched towards Lordaeron, marched towards this necropolis and mockery of capital. While on any other day he would have found a reason to rejoice for the coming battle – today he couldn’t. All that kept crawling into his mind was Sylvanas’ words. Her bitter, furious order. She wanted Taldrassil to burn, and her command had been followed through. Though he couldn’t ignore the fact that Nathanos had hesitated as well.

Had even the champion come to question his Lady’s orders?

Saurfang had made it to an empty hall, one where even the candle light was faded. It was wide and cold, grey walls unforgiving, the floor bare of skin rugs or some sort of carpeting. There was a single chair at the far end, facing a fireplace that was grand but melancholy. No flame had been lit in years, and Saurfang could see even in the terrible light that blood had stained patches of the frigid stone floor.

_“Are you tired?”_ The voice was feminine, carrying with it a definite passion. Yet Saurfang heard the hate in it, noted the ethereal whisper.

Sylvanas.

“Warchief,” Saurfang spoke, not able to hide his surprise. She rose from the high back chair, cool silver eyes glowing in the dark. “I had thought you were in the war room—“

_“Your attempts at eluding the question bore me,”_ her words were as sharp as any blade, cutting through his concerns. _“Are you tired, High Overlord?”_ She almost hissed the title, playing the words, but she wasn’t brazen enough to mock him at the moment.

Saurfang shook his head, “no My Lady, I am not.”

She stepped towards him, pale light from the few candles revealing her leather and mail. She was dressed for war, but in truth Saurfang had never seen Windrunner without her armour. She had no purpose beyond combat anymore, and it was almost enough to have him pity her. What kept him from such a sensation was both respect, as any worthy opponent deserved such, and anger. They were ever increasingly at odds, disagreeing about the path the Horde should follow.

_“Are you certain?”_ She questioned, her head tilting slightly in consideration. _“I have never known an orc to turn away from battle.”_

He wondered what she spoke of for a second, then felt abject horror that somehow Taldrassil had faded from his mind.

“You speak of Taldrassil,” he retorted, no longer managing to keep the respect in his tone. He looked away from her, the mere memory brought shame to him. He didn’t wait for her response, as he was sure there wasn’t one coming. Her only response was her silver-white gaze playing as a thin veil over unknowable cruelty. “That was not a battle, it was a slaughter.”

Sylvanas almost smiled at the word – he wasn’t wrong. For a short while the smell of Taldrassil burning had blinded her to the stench of the dead, the screams of those perishing inside sated something horrendous inside her, a growing hatred that had been snapping vicious, voracious jaws at the Horde itself.

How could anyone understand? This war just a way to fill an unending need, an unquenchable thirst that made her an utter monster.

_“You disapprove of my decision,”_ she said instead, her tone losing its bite for instead careful neutrality.

“There was no honour in it,” Saurfang stated, just as he had the day of the burning.

Sylvanas said precious little for a long, thoughtful moment.

_“Garrosh I suspect spoke best,”_ she noted, her lip quirking upwards in a small smirk. _“I have no honour; I am nothing but an abomination.”_

Saurfang was quiet, despite her amusement – had he heard misery in her admittance?

Her eyes for a moment flickered red, and he banished the thought from his mind.

_“Quite simply put, Saurfang. What do I have left to lose?”_

Saurfang’s ire rose, he shook his head yet no words came. She had everyone’s lives in her bloody hands. Her lust for slaughter and atrocities were going to cost them all, dearly. Too many were involved now, the world once again were clamouring for each other’s throats and she didn’t care.

Perhaps she couldn’t.

He glared at her, fists clenching as he took a step before her, fury in his words.

“The war.”

Sylvanas watched him turn and leave, her smirk turning to a smile as a soft, dark chuckle escaped her.

Could she lose a war with so many dead?

She felt the whisper of the val’kyr in her mind, her smile weakened as her eyes reddened and burned with an ire of remembrance.

No – no she would not lose this war.

But she could not say the same for everyone else.


End file.
